


cough syrup

by apolliades



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Affection, Asthma, Canon Disabled Character, Dry Humping, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Morning Sex, Non-Penetrative Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Coital Cuddling, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-coital cuddling, Sleepy Sex, colourblind Steve Rogers, dodgy 40s medicine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 12:14:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17508434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades
Summary: He digs the heel of his hand in to all the places he knows it hurts the most, where the bones of Steve’s spine don’t slot together right, where the knots form, where his muscles hold stiffness; Bucky presses into those places and it aches like a good stretch.





	cough syrup

Steve wakes up groggy after a night of heavy, cough-syrupy sleep, with Bucky’s warm weight beneath him, his thigh between his legs and his nose against his cheek. He’s already awake, just basking, apparently, in the heap of Steve on top of him.

No, stay, I like it, Bucky would tell him, when Steve would try to roll off and sleep beside him instead of using him as a human mattress topper.

I’m suffocating you, he’d argue, and Bucky would just grin, nuzzle in against his neck and drag him ever closer.

Yeah, well, fine. If that’s how I go, that’s how I go. And besides, you ain’t exactly heavy.

He feels Bucky’s fingers in his hair now, scratching gently at the nape of his neck. It feels good, the sensation sharp through the foggy hangover of such a deep, drug-induced sleep.

“Steve,” he murmurs, soft-smiley and sleep-scratchy right by his ear. “Your cock is digging into my leg.”

Is it, Steve wonders without concern, and shifts experimentally — there’s a warm rush of friction, just enough to feel nice, not to make him any more awake, but — yes. He hums softly. “’s mornin’.” His throat still feels gummed up from the medicine — it’s better than feeling coughed raw, but still makes it difficult to speak, just in a different way. “Wha’d you ’spect.”

“I don’t mind.” Bucky nips gently at his ear. His nails scrape lower, between his shoulder-blades. “You want a hand, though?”

Steve mumbles vaguely in the negative — for Bucky to reach he’d have to roll over, and he doesn’t want to move.

“Gonna go back to sleep?”

No, he doesn’t want to do that either. He rocks his hips as much as he can be bothered, rubbing up against Bucky’s thigh; it’s lazy and not really enough that he’ll be able to come from it, but he doesn’t particularly mind, just now. Bucky exhales softly beneath him, runs his palm flat up Steve’s back, then down again slower. He digs the heel of his hand in to all the places he knows it hurts the most, where the bones of Steve’s spine don’t slot together right, where the knots form, where his muscles hold stiffness; Bucky presses into those places and it aches like a good stretch.

Bucky’s hard too — Steve can feel it nudging his stomach. He’d reach down if he could be bothered, he will, in a minute. Bucky is patient; Steve knows he won’t mind waiting. For now he just moves where he is, in little increments, slow, idle circles, listening to Bucky’s breathing grow more laboured by the minute, feeling his nails press harder into his skin — finally Bucky lifts his hips when Steve rolls his down, and he lets out a heavy, wanting gasp.

“Steve,” he whispers, unsteady, “C’mere.”

His hands are on Steve’s waist, now — Steve grumbles vaguely at being dislodged from his comfortable place but lets Bucky move him carefully and, ah, it’s worth it when their bodies align like so many stars and the hot slow drag of Bucky’s cock against his own pulls the first real moan from Steve’s chest. Sleepy pleasure washes over him like warm water.

“God,” Bucky breathes into his shoulder. One hand is strong on the small of Steve’s back, keeping him close, in just the right place, urging him move faster, grind down harder. “That’s it.”

He’s always loud, when he’s needy like this, too loud for their thin walls and prying neighbours; Steve reaches up to press a hand over his mouth and for the first time that morning opens his eyes, lifts his head just enough to catch the blurry, beautiful second of Bucky’s lashes fluttering closed. He noses back in against his neck then, kisses behind his ear, feels him straining to keep quiet.

Steve is still only really two-thirds awake, but the heat in his stomach is building — what was a warm, idle notion finding mounting urgency in the shallow contractions of Bucky’s ribs beneath his own chest as he pants against his palm and in the way he’s arching up against him, body tense enough to tremble. He wants it to go on forever.

Finally, though, he hauls himself up. Plants a hand in the centre of Bucky’s chest; the other he lets slip from his damp mouth, strokes the length of his neck a moment before bringing it to rest beside the other. The look on Bucky’s face is almost holy. Colour across his cheeks like sunburn — he can’t tell its exact hue, but it’s warm where it spills down his throat to disappear beneath the open collar of his pyjama shirt — Steve knows it runs nearly all the way to his belly. He gazes up at Steve as he always does when they’re like this: with shameless wonder.

“Steve,” Bucky says, reverently, and touches his cheek. Steve lets him slip his thumb into his mouth and watches his eyes roll back when he sucks. He rocks down harder; no faster, but with more weight. One of them makes a noise that’s closer to a whimper than anything else. Impossible to tell who it was. The fabric between them is wet. Steve’s head spins, so he bows his brow to the solid curve of Bucky’s collarbone.

“Steve.” Bucky sounds like he’s pleading now. He clutches at Steve’s body, anywhere he can put his hands. “Steve — say my name.”

It’s just a whisper, desperate; Steve laughs softly into his chest. “Fuck off,” he murmurs, and him breathless too, lightheaded like in a dream, chasing the lift of Bucky’s hips with a rhythm that’s fast losing focus. Shaking he shoves a hand between the tight press of their bodies, works it beneath the waistband of Bucky’s pyjama pants — his cock is dripping — Steve thumbs a clumsy circle over the head and Bucky convulses. Steve hears himself gasp. “Bucky.”

He comes with his head thrown back, shoulders pressing hard into the mattress — Steve ruts against him all through it until he’s shuddering too, as if a current is running through him. He presses his face into Bucky’s neck and gasps for breath until it sticks in his throat and, with a twinge of disappointment but no surprise, he starts up coughing.

“Sweetheart.” Bucky’s hand is in his hair, gentle at the base of his skull. Steve doesn’t have it in him to move — it’s a strange combination, the still fading, melting pleasure in his stomach with the rattling ache in his lungs. He lies there and feels Bucky shift beneath him, hears the scrape of the drawer in the bedside cabinet, the click of a Zippo.

The first time he’d tasted one of the medicated cigarettes Bucky had pulled a face, put out his tongue — how can you stand to smoke this shit? Steve had shrugged. It isn’t great, but he’ll take it over the bitter tang of blood and mucus in his throat.

Bucky coaxes him gently to lie on his side and strokes his hair back softly while Steve fights to drag stramonium smoke into his tight angry lungs. “You alright?” he asks, when he’s breathing more evenly.

“Mm.” He passes the dead end of the cigarette for Bucky to flick towards the wastebasket across the room. It’s a bullseye. Steve smiles, gives him a quiet cheer, and shuffles close again to tuck his chin into Bucky’s shoulder. He closes his eyes a minute, relaxes into the quiet comfort of Bucky’s fingers drawing circles on his back. “Worth it,” he mumbles, with a soft wheeze, and feels Bucky chuckle.

Another minute. He could fall asleep again like this, easy, even with the damp sticky sheets and the burn in his chest. “What time is it?”

Bucky reaches for the clock on the bedside cabinet and points its face in Steve’s direction. He squints but can’t bring it into focus, gives up and lets Bucky tell him.

“Almost nine.” Grinning, he kisses the bridge of Steve’s nose. “If we get a move on we can still make it to church.”

**Author's Note:**

> don't worry they definitely do get to church :)
> 
> p.s. comments v welcome


End file.
